The Price of Command
by Koko-chan1
Summary: The Fuhrer reflects on his life.


The room was large, ornate, and sumptuously appointed. The walls were covered in tapestries and maps, the former for luxury and the latter for practicality, and everything was silver and blue. The table they all sat at was large and polished to a mirror-like shine, though it was difficult to see under all the papers, and likely cost enough to feed a family for a whole month. The chairs were large and almost as ornate as the rest of the room, made of more carved and polished wood with large blue cushions.

Except his, of course. His was bigger and even more ornate, but it had to be the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in all of Amestris. The irony of this was not lost on him, though he had a sinking feeling that it was well over the heads of his council. But then, many of the little subtleties of life seemed to pass them by without their narrow little minds ever noticing. They just kept arguing and posturing about this and that, and it usually fell to him to make sure that they didn't send a whole battalion to settle a minor dispute between two shopkeepers. When he'd first become Fuhrer, he would never have guessed that he'd be inheriting the role of nursemaid for a bunch of warmongers with bloody sticks up their asses. And he couldn't even get rid of them, since their connections ensured that he'd get nothing but grief from all sides if he tried. But oh, he did like to dream about firing the lot of them. Maybe through a cannon…

"Your majesty, what would you suggest?"

The question snapped him out of his little daydream, and he looked up at one of his older generals, holding back a tired sigh. He was so _weary_ these days. When was the last time he'd gotten a full night's sleep? He honestly couldn't remember. "About which issue, General Stein?" he asked, knowing that admitting to having zoned out would not make any of his council terribly happy with him. He knew they all wanted his seat, and that they felt he had reached his station at far too young an age. After all, he did not yet have a single grey hair that wasn't caused by stress or enough wrinkles to imitate a bulldog.

_Little men,_ he thought to himself irritably, _Little men with little minds, despite their high stations. Can't believe for a moment that I got where I am through my own talents…and perhaps a touch of insanity. I _did_ accept this rule, after all._

The General cleared his throat, still looking somewhat disapproving, but that was normal for him. "About Drachma's enlarging of their armies, Fuhrer. Surely you don't think that they should be allowed to make such an obvious gesture of hostility?"

The other Generals were all looking at him now, and he had to stifle a groan and resist tearing his hair out. These men were going to make him go bald one of these days. "I don't see where we have the right to do anything except keep an eye on them, General."

The disapproval on Stein's face grew, making the man look like he'd been sucking lemons for the last twenty years. "And allow them the time to invade us? Are you mad? Fuhrer Bradley would have had agents running out to crush their plans right from the start!"

"I am not Bradley," he said, his tone mild but much colder than it had been before. Monkey instincts, that's all this was. Two opposing groups shrieking and throwing shit at each other. And somehow, he'd been roped into being the sensible one. "General Stein, in case you have forgotten, there was a very brief but vicious little war just last year with Drachma. Or were you not paying attention? We decimated that nation's army. Of _course_ they're rebuilding it! Right now, they don't have enough troops to properly defend their own borders. Trust me; they have no interest in breaching ours again for quite some time. Or haven't you been listening to General Hawkeye's reports?"

Stein's face had gone past lemons and on to sucking arsenic. It made him feel a little better. It wasn't often that he could scold one of his council like the brats they were, but it was nice when he could. Everyone else at the table was blessedly silent as he spoke, and Stein would perhaps be a little more cautious in what he said from now on.

"But surely you—"

Okay, maybe not. Idiot. "Surely nothing!" he snapped, and looked around the table, suddenly out of patience with them all. "We all know what happens when hostilities are pressed too far, gentlemen! I am quite sure that none of us are interested in yet another mess like what happened in Ishbal or Liore. Bradley may have enjoyed bloodbaths of that proportion, but I consider them a sickening waste of men and resources. I have no interest in causing another one, especially not in the northern mountains where we'd lose half our forces to the cold long before reaching anything like a battlefield. Let's try to think of some more practical solutions to our problems besides blowing things up, shall we?"

The members of the council muttered, but none would meet his hard stare, and discussion finally turned to alternatives. And the Fuhrer's attention again wandered, though he kept a careful ear on the various conversations. His gaze wandered to a nearby window, and he rested his chin against one gloved hand, feeling tired and irritable and sluggish. Gods, when was the last time he'd gotten some exercise? Or even used the gloves he was wearing for something other than mopping up an accidental coffee stain before Riza noticed the spill? How he hated all this beurocratic drudgery! When he'd been younger, he'd dreamed of making the world a better place, of improving the lives of himself and the people around him. That ideal is what had driven him to accept his office, despite comments to the contrary.

Unfortunately, the real truth behind the title of Fuhrer was that unless you were a tyrant like Bradley, almost everything was bogged down with red tape, especially since he couldn't afford to make enemies out of every high-ranking official in his army, even if most of them thought with the section of their bodies that was the last part to see the last meal. It meant sitting for hours on end in the hardest and most uncomfortable chair in the entire country and listening to idiots clamor for blood and whine about how taxes hadn't yielded them enough money to destroy the entire world. It meant boredom and frustration and loneliness and never knowing exactly who was truly on your side. And the men on his council actually _wanted_ his job! Ha!

Times like this, he desperately missed days gone by. The excitement, the freedom, the ability to actually _go the fuck out and do something_! But such times had vanished along with the one man who had always managed to make such actions possible. Where was the Fullmetal Alchemist now? Long gone, missing for almost ten years, and the legend of Edward Elric had long since grown out of proportion to the point where there was no chance of gaining even a single solid clue. And of course, everyone knew how Alphonse Elric had taken that disappearance, and the fate that sensitive boy had come to. All anyone knew was that there had been chaos, uncontrolled alchemy, and angry homunculi, leading to the disappearance of two of the best alchemists in the world, and two who would have been an incalculable amount of help with his own reign.

A touch to his shoulder, and the ruler of Amestris gave a tiny start, looking up into coffee-colored eyes Standing in front of him, a stack of papers in one arm, was his most trusted Aide.

"General Hawkeye," he greeted, though he felt the sharp stab of regret inside. Riza, oh _Riza_…he'd chained her to this place just as surely as he was chained, all because he had needed at least one person that he knew would always be loyal and trustworthy, but unafraid to tell him when he was being an idiot. The fact that she had replied to his offer by asking what had taken him so long only made it worse, somehow. "Any news?"

"Not on what you want to hear, no," the striking blonde woman replied, her expression never giving away anything, though they both knew she was aware of how her words made his heart fall like a stone. "Breda's sent word back from Xing. There are definite signs that those renegade alchemists we've been hearing about have set up shop there."

"They got tired of helpless Amestrian villagers, I see," the Fuhrer muttered, making a face.

"No, Highness. More like they got tired of angry mobs with pickaxes. They tried to set up in Youswell, and Fullmetal's example is still a driving force there."

The smirk curved his lips before he could stop it, remembering the small but explosive presence that had once graced these halls. "Edward always did have a certain impact. Usually with his fist or face, but either way, it left an impression. I wish…" He stopped there. He didn't need to say the rest. It was something that they both had said more than once to each other. There were holes in their lives, horrible rending holes, and nothing short of a miracle would fix them.

Hawkeye simply nodded, her eyes softening with understanding for only a moment before the mask was back in place. "It's time for you to meet with the Xing ambassador again. He'll want to know about the terrorists taking root in the empire."

"Work, work, work," he groaned, hauling himself to his feet, "Why did I take this job again?"

"Because there was no one better."

"That really doesn't sound like a compliment, Hawkeye…"

"It wasn't meant to, sir."

"Ouch…" He turned and gave the rest of his council a hard look. "This meeting is over. Remember what I said, gentlemen. I'm going to expect some workable ideas when we meet again tomorrow morning. Don't disappoint me."

"Yes, Fuhrer Elric." was the grudging response.

And as he walked out the door, the Fuhrer wondered if it was a bad thing that he couldn't remember the last time someone had simply called him 'Alphonse'.


End file.
